


Keep It Straight

by Honeythief



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:12:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2001669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeythief/pseuds/Honeythief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Dean Winchester and his constant case of battling his own sexuality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep It Straight

**Author's Note:**

> First posted fic ever - nuff said. Hope you enjoy!

It was all unexpected, unplanned and uncalled for. His 19-year-old self had never entertained such thought before, it never so much as crossed his mind for even the briefest of moments. Dean Winchester was still a teenager then, still young, frisky and comely, his mind preoccupied with women, more women and dirty fantasies about women. In plain tongue, he was all tits and ass and everything a healthy heterosexual male should be naturally interested in.

Taking all that under consideration, the startled little yelp he let slip out of his lips when Rhonda licked him _way_ below was definitely justified. He snapped his head up to stare questioningly into the girl's mocking eyes, a stupefied expression on his face.

"Got a little sidetracked, honey? My dick is up he- _oh_ , fuck!" he dropped back on the pillow when he felt a slim, wet finger slide inside of him.

"Be glad that I cut my fingernails," she drawled, obviously enjoying the way he hissed when she viciously dragged her digit across his inner walls. Dean's cheeks burned with shame as unwanted pleasure started to kick in, stronger with every stroke. "Never done that to yourself, boy?" she added a second finger and earned herself a shaky exhale. Her voice was oddly breathy, too. "Never touched yourself down here? See what you were missing?" she emphasized, moving her fingers quicker now, in and out, curling them sweetly in all the right places.

"S-stop talking, just...-" he couldn't get it out. Not someting like this.

"What is it? You want more?" she purred. "Oh, you definitely like this." She started massaging his balls, all while running her tongue across Dean's rim in slow, teasing cricles. The hunter shifted on the bed when Rhonda pushed her fingers deeper, his brows furrowed in confused pleasure, sweat running down his back and a series of whimpers fighting their way out of his throat.

He did like it. More than he should, more than he'd ever admit, he liked it enough to start pleasuring himself that way more often than not, closing his eyes and refusing to acknowledge the nature of his weird inclinations.

"It's okay," he told himself. "It just feels good is all. Doesn't make me any less straight."

But the seed was planted, and now he started noticing, asking himself "what if?" What if he hadn't blown that guy off and flirted back instead? It couldn't hurt to experiment, right? No one had to know, his father least of all. That's what he told himself, and didn't resist much when a handsome guy going by the name of Matt offered him a non-committal game of pool, smiling all too suggestively and buying him one beer too many. Dean ended up on his knees in some dingy alley just outside the dive bar, licking and sucking on the guy's cock the way he liked it best himself. He felt slightly unsettled by how much he enjoyed making the man swear and moan and grip his short, sandy hair while he let him use his mouth, and he most definitely didn't smirk with satisfaction when Matt started coming down his throat with a wild groan, bucking his hips and leaving Dean no choice but to swallow his load until the last drop. He was 21.

"It's nothing," he told himself. "I was drunk, it doesn't count. Drunk people do dumb stuff. No need to make a fuss about dumb stuff."

And thus he carried on with his 100% of self-proclaimed heterosexuality, ignoring the strange curiosity he harbored for the same sex. It manifested itself in little things - like checking out a random guy's ass from time to time, bluntly noticing just how good-looking his little brother was starting to become or more than occasionally drooling after Dr. Sexy. He kept ignoring it for years until one day he didn't. It became an itch he needed to scratch, an increasingly uncomfortable desire he never asked for and didn't dare fulfill until that one night dad set off on a solo hunt and left him unfocused on anything specific, alone with his long suppressed thoughts. He felt like a total idiot when he found himself pacing nervously outside some local gay bar, conflicted and embarrassed. 25-year-old man, fumbling like a blushing virgin.

"It's fine," he told himself over and over, trying to calm down. "Just exploring my options, not a big deal. I'm not gay, I'm _so_ not."

The minute he finally brought himself to step in, he regretted it instantaneously. Men everywhere, men around him, men _against_ him, men wherever he looked. To say that he didn't feel at ease would be a _major_ understatement. He somehow managed to make his way through the crowd (of _more_ men) and landed heavily on a recently vacated bar stool, his eyes dancing around in panic until they finally settled on the bartender, who was smiling at him with sympathy and hardly concealed interest.

"New here, eh? Can I get you anything? On the house," he winked.

"Y-yeah, um... thanks, w-whatever man, but make it strong, I guess." He almost proceeded to relax when his gaze turned towards the small TV just above the bar, displaying shameless gay porn. He cringed and looked away, unprepared for such hardcore action. Now, were he anyplace else, looking to get laid, he'd be the predator, the one in control. Here, he felt more like prey, sitting miserably at the bar and waiting to be picked up like some bloody chick, no less. Doing his best to avoid the stares of nearby men, he downed his drink in one go and ordered another, bent on getting wasted. Unfortunately, he was scarcely on his third shot when he felt a hand grip his shoulder. He turned and faced a sweaty, butch guy who toppled on the seat next to his.

Rick. Rick looked at him like he was a plate of the most delicious course in the world. He looked at him with everything Dean wasn't sure he wanted to be looked at with. Sick fascination, lust, a hint of danger. _"Prey,"_ Dean thought idly and went back to work on his whiskey, taking a slow sip and licking his lips, well aware of further provoking the man. After a few moments of being small-talked and flirted to death, he deemed himself drunk enough to take it up a notch by running a hand up his companion's thick thigh, ending on his semi-hard dick and giving it an experimental squeeze.

"Screw it," he told himself. "Now or never. Let's get this show on the road."

His voice was low and slightly slurred when he leaned in and murmured into Rick's ear: "So how about we get out of here? I got a motel room close by."

14 minutes later he was slammed roughly against the door of his room, the sheer force of it knocking the wind out of his lungs. Giving him no time to recover, Rick immediately assaulted his mouth with rough kisses. Having been deprived of any will to fight and overall dizzy with consumed alcohol, Dean could only give in. When Rick stopped devouring him to take a breath, the hunter gasped with relief and filled his lungs with blissful air, taking deep, greedy inhales. A second later, he heard a growl by his ear.

"I'm gonna _wreck_ your tight, perfect ass, sweetheart. Believe it or not, I'mma fuck you so hard and good that you'll beg and cry for more," the older man rasped, pushing his knee between Dean's thighs and palming his ass. "No mercy. You had it coming, practically begging to get drilled tonight," he mouthed at his neck, kissing and licking it frantically. "Bitch," he added in a whisper.

That last word was like a bucket of cold water. Something snapped inside the older Winchester. All his damned life he'd tried to resemble his father, act manly, be brave and strong and hardy. He was a womanizer and a _hunter_ , for fucking sake, a relentless killing machine, not some random dude's fucktoy! Not a bitch, _not_ prey. He'd almost let silly sexual fantasies ruin his entire image. Sudden disgust washed over him acutely, sobering his foggy mind enough to start pushing the horny pile of meat off of him. It cost him a considerate amount of effort, making him wish he was in better form and curse his mad love for pie and bacon cheeseburgers. Rick was taken aback enough to exhibit a perfect opening for Dean to land a juicy punch on his face. The hunter's would-be lover stumbled back pitifully, taking blow after blow - a knee to his stomach, elbow to his jaw, kick in the crotch. Watching the man writhe on the floor, Dean hastily grabbed his keys, shut the door and rushed towards the Impala. Gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles went white, he calmed his labored breathing, blinked away his blurry vision and drove away, humming Metallica.

"Never again," he told himself.

Short after that, he became too focused on looking for John, watching out for Sammy and hunting things to continue exploring his sexuality. Whenever needy, he'd go grab a fuck the old-fashioned way, and if the lady at hand happened to be a bit more dominant than most, he secretly thanked his lucky stars. With time, he gradually stifled his tendencies, pinning them on late puberty and laughing at the whole ridiculous concept. He looked at women and saw only women. He was safely back at his 100% again, his honest certainty he'd never lust after or fall in love with another man (which, incidentally, was whole another level of impossible). All that rubbish has been permanently chased out of his thoughts.

And then came Castiel. His rescue, his fairytale knight in shining armor, with all the bitter irony of being saved by something he was dead-sure didn't exist. He came, just like that, with his stupid trenchcoat and ruffled hair. With squinty-eyed, penetrating looks and that deep, rumbling voice, saying _Apocalypse_ and _Lucifer_ , turning his world upside down and then making it miserably fall apart again. A warrior of heaven, fierce and commanding yet annoyingly endearing at times. Angel of The Fucking Lord. Somewhere along the way, Dean's "percentages" and "puberties" simply stopped mattering. It all went to hell along with a fat row of other petty excuses and futile attempts at denial that failed to make a difference.

"Aw fuck," he told himself whenever he looked into those blue, blue eyes. "I'm so screwed."


End file.
